


Something Wretched About This, Something So Precious About This

by SaltCore



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Hopeful Ending, Immortal Husbands, Light Angst, M/M, meet ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: The hallowed dust of the Holy Land turns to mud in your mouth, choking you on blessed filth. There is a glinting scimitar in your belly, wielded by a man whose battle cry is incomprehensible but whose piercing eyes speak loathing and mortal terror more eloquently than speech ever could.You are a dead man, Nicoló. You will soon be at the mercy of hallowed Saint Peter, but while  your sword is heavy in your hand, and there is strength yet in your arms.Do not meet death alone.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 51
Kudos: 392





	Something Wretched About This, Something So Precious About This

The hallowed dust of the Holy Land turns to mud in your mouth, choking you on blessed filth. There is a glinting scimitar in your belly, wielded by a man whose battle cry is incomprehensible but whose piercing eyes speak loathing and mortal terror more eloquently than speech ever could. 

You are a dead man, Nicoló. You will soon be at the mercy of hallowed Saint Peter, but while your sword is heavy in your hand, there is strength yet in your arms. 

Do not meet death alone.

* * *

Heaven is not before you.

Choke and gasp. Cough up flecks of dirt. Whimper. What sin had you committed, had gone unrepented for, that had brought you to damnation?

Look. Do not see hellfire. 

A silent battlefield is almost worse. Around you are the mangled corpses left on the field, friend and foe indistinguishable under the meager starlight. Not a one is anything more than a banquet for the carrion birds.

Search your body for the mortal wound. You remember being struck. No one could have survived such a blow. 

Could it be a miracle? Could your god have preserved you? Scramble to your knees, ready to cry thanks from chapped and breaking lips, but words die in your throat when you see your murderer writhing in the dirt. His armor is stained with blood, but underneath, even in the dark, see that his flesh is whole. 

His rent armament is testament enough to your blow, but somehow he too is alive. 

Hate burns your heart, and you fall upon him, to finish what you started. Perhaps this is your purpose, the reason you still draw breath, to scour him from the earth.

When you fall the second time, do so in the knowledge that he didn’t escape you this time either.

* * *

Jesus, hallowed be his name, was tested by the Devil for forty days in the desert. 

If you must kill this man forty times, you will. 

* * *

You have lost count of the times you have died, Nicoló. The sun has risen again, and thirst burns your throat. The man, your enemy, hasn’t risen to fight you this time. He still lies in the dirt where he last fell.

He is weeping. Repeating the same word, over and over. He is a pitiful creature, eyes dark enough to consume, noble countenance wracked by misery. 

Weariness stays your body. Doubt creeps in. He is your match, your equal. Know, deeply, truly, that delivering his death is a task that is beyond you. If it is a question of faith, then it is beyond yours. 

Tears stain your cheeks too. Death, the total nothingness of it, frightens you. This is not what you had been promised. There is no glory, no rest. Just oblivion, terrifying and complete. 

You don’t want to go back. Not so soon.

Reach out to the man, hand open, almost in supplication. 

He reaches back.

* * *

Leave the battlefield. The battle. The man, who by trial and error you learn to call Yusuf, follows you. 

Or maybe it is you who is following him. 

Either way, something has happened that only the two of you can truly know, and you cannot leave him until you understand. Take your weapon, but leave it sheathed. There will come a time you will need it, but you have drawn it against Yusuf for the last time.

* * *

In time, learn his words. He, alike, learns yours. 

The way he chuckles as you fumble through your new vocabulary is finer than any flute. Make mistakes, sometimes, just to hear it. He teases you, but you are learning to decipher his jests.

He takes to your tongue more easily, and while he often fumbles the order of things, he remembers every word you think to teach him. Your name on his lips sounds better than any music, and you hear it often.

He tells you, haltingly, using your words and his, of his home. Of sweet dates, of intricately decorated mosques, of his mother’s songs. Tell him, in turn, of wine and marble cathedrals and the sparkling seas.

* * *

Dream, every night, of two women. Yusuf dreams of the same. One is trapped, screaming and dying and screaming, under the waves. The other is haunted, furious, deadly, a harbinger of slaughter. 

They will not leave you. It must mean something. 

Together, resolve to find them.

* * *

The road is long, and your search, incomprehensibly difficult. Yusuf, though, makes the days pass easily. He is kind by turns, fierce by turns, and always terribly noble. How anyone, let alone you, could have hated him seems now the height of foolishness.

* * *

The first time Yusuf dies, and it was not you that killed him, your heart crumbles to ash in your chest.

Terror then consumes you. What if death was only thwarted when it came by your hand? You cannot know. He is not breathing. You cannot know.

Do not wait to find out. Fall upon the bandits that shot Yusuf, screaming curses as you cut them down. They fall to your sword, no match for either your training or your rage.

Stand alone, with blood spattering your clothes, afraid to turn back. Afraid of what you will see. What if Yusuf is gone? Can you bear the terrible knowledge of those days you spent unable to die alone? Will you be forced to? 

“Oh, Nicoló!”

Yusuf laughs, high and bright. Turn to look at him. The arrow is no longer in his chest, now lying on the ground beside him.

“Such terrible things you wished upon them!” Yusuf laughs again. There is blood soaking his clothes. 

Tears well again. You could not help it if you had tried.

“Yusuf, I—”

The rest will not come. Yusuf stops laughing, clambers to his feet instead. He pulls you against him, strokes your hair, tells you that he has not truly come to harm.

You know, you _know_ , but the _what if_ is too much a burden, and you collapse against him, wailing.

* * *

When you submit to him this time, you are not rewarded with oblivion, but ecstasy. 

Cling to him, after. His unstoppable heartbeat is loud under your ear. Steady. The only thing on this earth that makes sense to you any more. 

He murmurs into your hair _mine, mine, mine, oh my heart, this man, my love_. A smile creeps over your lips, every syllable known to you. 

Kiss him, then murmur your own adorations into his mouth.

* * *

Yusuf dies again, eventually. You do as well. It ceases to frighten you in the same way, though the fear never truly leaves. 

Death, after all, cannot ever truly lose its sting.

* * *

Meet one of the women from your dreams, the warrior, on a bitter winter’s morning. 

She sits tall on her horse, piercing, sky colored eyes staring both of you down. Measuring you both. Her expression gives nothing about her tally away. 

She is formidable, even sitting still, but Yusuf is at your side, and with him there you can feel no fear. 

Closer to your homeland than Yusuf’s, by silent agreement you step forward and greet her. You try Latin,

“Blessed morning to you, fellow traveler.” 

“I know you both.” Her accent is strange, but not so thick you do not understand her.

“And we you. But what should we call you?”

“Andromache of Scythia.”

“I am Nicoló di Genova, and my companion is Yusuf Al-Kaysani.”

She nods, perhaps, to herself, and dismounts her horse. Yusuf shifts behind you, but you hold up a hand. Her own weapon, an axe, remains on her back, so there is no cause for concern, even if she could kill either of you.

She reminds you of a lone wolf. Fearsome. Terribly lonely. She lifts her hands to your face. They are rough and strong and warm. Slowly, she tips your head forward so she can press her lips to your forehead. 

“Brothers, I am glad to find you well.”

She goes to Yusuf and does the same. 

“I am as you, and we belong together,” she pronounces. Her words have the weight of truth. 

Your mind is already settled. You and Yusuf had long decided that finding either woman was paramount, and to have found one in peace can only mean you have destiny’s blessing. Still, turn back to Yusuf, just to see. He nods. 

It’s settled then.

In gladness and joy, welcome your sister in arms.


End file.
